


Complex Issues

by ClueyLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Depression, Eating Disorder, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClueyLock/pseuds/ClueyLock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has found himself with depression and an eating disorder. Not to mention, for a man so clever, he can really be quite clumsy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complex Issues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [internetpiratearrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/internetpiratearrr/gifts).



> Hi everyone, thanks for clicking the link to this fic! It's taken me a while to write this first chapter, and it's been quite difficult to write, too. This will be a multi-chapter story, so stay tuned!!  
> Any comments are most welcome, but please - no haters.  
> Happy reading!

Sherlock Holmes was hunched over the kitchen counter, still in his silk dressing gown, inspecting what looked worryingly like a decomposing hand. His eyes continued to flicker between the rotting hand and his notebook for a while, his own hand clutching a pen as it rushed across the paper, turning his observations into words.

"Silence." Sherlock barked, as a floorboard creaked underneath John's weight. John rolled his eyes, before shooting a glare into the back of Sherlock's head. The detective was forever commanding John for silence.

John crossed the living room and headed over to where Sherlock was working, forcing his gaze not to drop down to the human remains that were occupying the same counter in which he prepared their food on.

Sherlock felt his companions breath slight against the back of his neck, and whipped around, irritated that he was being disturbed from his work.

"John!" Sherlock snapped, eyes dark and infuriated. 

John halted, his lips parted, quivering, as though he was struggling to find any words to say. His eyes widened as he scanned Sherlock's face, taking in the hollow features of his cheekbones, and the sunken depth of his eyes.

"Sher-lock-" John stammered, automatically reaching his hands up to cup Sherlock's face so that he could take his doctor's eye and examine his friend, if only briefly.

Sherlock batted John's hands away, his brows pulled together in a disapproving frown. 

"Leave me." The detective said, his tone submissive, yet firm.

The doctor didn't know what to say, or even do, so he simply nodded, mouth still open and expression still horrified, and turned on his heel to go.  
Half way across the living room, he turned back, glancing over his shoulder to get another glimpse at his friend.  
Sherlock's spine was sticking out roughly through his gown, the silk falling unevenly around his figure. His pale hands with his lean fingers were carefully fiddling with the experiment before him, working quickly with a sense of urgency to complete his work with upmost accuracy.

John was rather taken aback from this new skeletal Sherlock, whom was still engrossed in the observations that he was currently undertaking.  
Of course, the consulting detective had always had a fine frame, a heightened length - but had he ever been this thin, John was certain he had not. 

John sank into his chair, turning and peering over the back of the seat so that he could keep a wary eye on his flatmate, who was still hard at work. He was sure that he would get nothing but a mere 'shut-up-and-leave-me-alone-John' if he attempted to offer Sherlock something to eat. Or even just something to nibble on. 

So he sat patiently, waiting for Sherlock to finish his (rather disturbing) deductions.

* * * * 

John was drifting into sleep when he heard Sherlock rise from his experiment and advance across the living room to take up his violin.  
The doctor's eyes fluttered open, and he sat, hushed, watching as his friend brushed rosin onto the horsehair-bow.  
"You're awake, I see." Sherlock's husky voice sent shivers down the doctor's spine, as it usually did.  
"I...am, yes." John nodded in confirmation, his cheeks flushed. "Sherlock," John quickly changed the subject, "what have you, erm, eaten recently?"  
Sherlock's gaze didn't part from his bow - neither did the long stroking motions of his hands against the horsehair fault in any way. 

There was a long moment's pause before he answered.

"Let me see, today...coffee-"

"How many cups?"

Sherlock flashed a look of bother at John before answering, "two."

John sighed and looked down at his watch. It was half past two in the afternoon, and this...colossal idiot standing before him had starved his body of energy. Not to mention he'd only allowed himself to swallow two cups of caffeine. 

"Black or white?" 

"What?" 

"The coffee. Did you take them black, or did you take them white, with milk." John pressed, the vein on his forehead throbbing with frustration.

"One of each."

John let out a loud exasperated sigh, combing his fingers through his hair.

"What about yesterday?" John asked helplessly, dreading whatever answer it was that would escape Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock turned his back slightly towards John, and brought the violin up to rest between his chin and his left shoulder. Lifting the freshly-rosined bow, he posed as if he was about to begin playing.

"Nothing."

John watched, his face affright, as Sherlock brought the bow gently down onto the E string, and played his own composition - a classical piece that John favoured.

* * * *

John slammed the bathroom door, pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and rapidly started hitting the keys.

Mycroft. I need you. Sherlock's killing himself. I don't know how to stop it. You know what he's like. 

John sent the text and perched on the side of the bath tub, gently rocking himself back and forth, as if comforting himself from this nightmare.  
He stared the screen, his knuckles white from holding the phone so tightly, not daring to even blink as he waited for Mycroft's reply.

After barely twenty seconds, (which was insufferably long for the poor doctor), an alert flashed up on the screen of the mobile with Mycroft's reply.

How long has he been in this state for, and what is it that he is doing? -MH

John's breath quickened as he typed his reply.

He's starving himself. I don't know how long he's been doing this for.

It was another agonising twenty-odd seconds before the phone buzzed once again.

Give him 24 hours. If he doesn't improve after then, hospitalise him. If anything happens to him, doctor, I'm holding you responsible. -MH

John stiffened at Mycroft's cold reply, but he knew he was right; John was the only person that Sherlock both cares for and listens to. Even though he often never shows his affections for John, both the doctor and Mycroft know it's there.

"Twenty-four hours," John muttered softly, "you've got twenty-four hours." His hands shook, and the mobile, which still had Mycroft's reply on the screen, fell crashing to the floor. John leant his head into his hands, his palms aching against his face.

 

The sound of violin strings being played with precision by a knowing musician filled the flat; to anyone else, all they would hear would be the beauty. To John, all he can now hear is the pain.

**Author's Note:**

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